


Old Familiar Faces

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Year's Eve, John decided, was going to defy the laws of physics and both suck and blow simultaneously.</p><p>Sherlock has a date, John does not, and neither man is happy about the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Familiar Faces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nox_candida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/gifts).



“I thought you refused to attend any function hosted by, sponsored by, suggested by or even mentioned by Mycroft.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock deftly fixed his bow tie with a few quick, practiced movements and gave himself an approving once-over in the full length mirror hanging on his wardrobe door. “I am making an exception.”

The name of the exception was Victor Trevor, John reminded himself with more than a hint of bitterness. Sherlock had been vociferous in his refusal to attend Mycroft’s New Year’s Eve ‘do until the elder Holmes had said the magic words: “Victor is attending.” Sherlock had sat up straight, eyes going wide and, if John wasn’t mistaken, cheeks turning just a bit pink. Mycroft had smiled and taken his leave, and John had begun his most subtle, epic sulk ever.

“Well, have fun then.” John did his best not to stalk away and walk with measured, careful steps to the sofa. Sherlock made another humming noise and John could hear the clink of bottles and the slide of wooden drawers as he finished his preparations for the evening. Thumbing through the telly guide, he sighed to himself and settled on the Vicar of Dibley marathon. No detectives, no great mysteries and nothing whatsoever to make think of Sherlock. _Grow a pair, Watson. For fuck’s sake, you’re almost forty, not sixteen._ He looked up as Sherlock stepped into the living room. “Should I expect you back this evening?”

“It’s New Year’s Eve. Isn’t it traditional to remain out until the wee hours? Seeing old familiar faces and getting drunk in the process?”

The tiny smirk at the corner of Sherlock’s lips played havoc with John’s attention. He blinked slowly, making himself focus on some spot just past Sherlock’s shoulder, away from the oddly attractive face and broad shoulders and long, lean body of his flatmate. “Usually, yeah. Well, take your keys, then, and try not to get too pissed. You stomp like a bloody elephant when you’re drunk and I don’t fancy waking up to you clodding about.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a movement John caught out of the corner of his own, and made a chiding noise. “Really, John. Just spend the night at her’s, if it’s such a problem.”

“Her’s?” John’s gaze snapped to Sherlock’s and he shook his head slightly, confused as to which ‘her’ Sherlock was referring. “I don’t have anything on for tonight, Sherlock.”

“Oh?” There was something arch in Sherlock’s tone, familiar and new at once, and John didn’t like it. He didn’t get the chance to comment, though, before Sherlock’s phone sounded. “Ah, car’s here. Enjoy your evening, John.”

“Me and Dawn French,” he sighed, settling into the sofa with a heavy feeling in his stomach and an open bottle of lager beside him. “Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

“We’ll see...”

Victor Trevor was exactly as Sherlock remembered him, as if the years had not touched him at all. At first, that seemed like quite a bit of serendipity--Victor was still as bright-eyed and dashing as he had been at university, talking a mile a minute and smiling in that way that made Sherlock’s stomach feel as if it were infested with butterflies (not that he’d ever admit as much to anyone, not even John). It was only after the first half hour of Victor’s chatter that Sherlock realized that being preserved forever at twenty one was not pleasant. At least not for him; Victor’s conversation was banal, centering around his work in the City, his trip to Antigua and his ex-wife, some English rose type he had married to please his father and divorced as soon as the will was read. Sherlock’s mind began to wander, mostly towards John. _No date for New Year’s Eve, possibly second only to Valentine’s Day in terms of trite, dull romantic gestures of the sort John adores. Sarah is old news, Mary is married, Sonja went spare..._ as Victor extolled the virtues of one wine over another, Sherlock nodded, bored nearly to the point of violence, mentally reciting the list of John’s lovers over the past three years. _Then there’s Raymond, who he thinks I don’t know about, Gareth, who he knows that I know about, and then that one date with Gregson. Sherlock smirked fondly at that memory._ Gregson had been absolutely head over heels for John, but John had been bored to tears and cut the date short after the young DI had gotten, in John’s words, ‘handsy’ in the middle of the restaurant.

“What’s so funny?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up to find Victor giving him a quizzical look. “Victor, it’s been an experience seeing you again. I find myself rather disappointed.”

“I...excuse me?” Victor drew himself up to his full height and the cloak of hauteur Sherlock remembered from the end of their previous association fell over him like a shadow. “Is this because I’m not talking about burglaries and murders and whatever the Hell else you ponce on about in that blog of yours?”

“It’s because,” Sherlock paused to toss back of the rest of his wine (Victor was right--it really was delicious), “you’re dull. Very few people in this world hold my attention and are not murderers or masterminds. In fact,” he said, breath catching in his throat as the words tumbled forth, “I can only think of one person right now who deserves my interest and he’s watching a portly vicar tell bad jokes.”

“What?” Victor’s cry followed Sherlock through the knot of party-goers and past Mycroft, who smiled to himself and motioned for one of the servants to open the door before Sherlock bloody well walked through it.

John had started his third bottle of lager and was on his second bowl of takeaway curry (best to start the new year with a clean fridge) when Sherlock’s running steps pounded up the stairs and the door banged open before John could so much as set aside his food. “Did Lestrade call?” he asked automatically, managing to shed his blanket and get to his feet before Sherlock crossed the room. “Let me get my shoes.”

“Stop!” Sherlock pressed the flat of his palm against John’s chest and held him still with that simple touch. “There’s no case. Lestrade is out with Molly, doing who knows what, and Dimmock wouldn’t call me if his life depended upon it.”

“Well, if you’d just apologize for insulting his wife...”

“Shut up, John! Why aren’t you out on a date tonight?”

“Excuse me?” John stepped back, out of Sherlock’s reach and feeling bereft. He had been in love with the madman before him for two years, by his reckoning, and he hoarded the casual touches, the incidental brushes of flesh and fabric that sent tiny frissons of pleasure through his veins. He would remember them in the shower, in bed (and once in the exam room, when he was supposed to be doing paperwork), piece them together to make one whole embrace, extrapolate a kiss. “Did you come home just to pick at my romantic life?”

“You don’t have one. You’re a serial monogamist, in part due to your own apathy towards settling down and in part due to me.” There was no missing the slight widening of John’s eyes at that one, and Sherlock felt a flare of pleasure in his breast. “The work,” he added, and John nodded slowly. “But mostly me.”

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, eyes darting left and right, trying to avoid that intense, pale gaze and failing. “Sherlock, what are you getting at?” His fingers curled into fists at his sides, not out of anger but to keep from touching Sherlock. The man was so close, John thought, just a breath away. And he smelled so good and was so damned warm... He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on but go back to Mycroft’s party. Go visit...Go visit Victor.”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a smile. “You say his name as if it tasted foul, John. Are you jealous?”

Later, John would wonder if it was the lager talking, even though he knew his tolerance was well above three, and he would blame the alcohol when Lestrade found out about this discussion years from then, but at that moment, he wasn’t thinking of excuses or avoidance. He was angry that Sherlock had apparently come home, mid-party and looking like a fucking wet dream come to life, just to pick at his lack of a date. “I’m not jealous, you great berk. That’d imply we had something between us, something that I was afraid of losing! And unless Victor Trevor is going to run after you all over London at all hours, dust your skull and be your best friend, then I have nothing to be jealous about!”

“Do you think that is all you are to me, John?”

Sherlock’s voice was soft, no lower than usual but it seemed to send ripples through John’s muscles, into his very bones. “I...no,” he said on a huff of air. “What am I, then? What am I to you?”

“You’re my colleague.” He took a step closer to John and towered over him. “You’re my best friend, my companion my flatmate...” He could feel John’s shaking exhale, and there was no mistaking the slight widening of the eyes, the dilation of the doctor’s pupils and the way John seemed to sway towards him with each breath, “and the subject of many, many uncomfortable dreams.”

“Oh?” John felt his heart pounding so hard that he thought he might be having a cardiac event. He was fine being friends, only friends, he wanted to say. He wanted that more than a fling, more than just a few shags and then nothing. He didn’t want to have his heart broken, no matter how wonderful it might feel to be Sherlock’s and Sherlock to be his for a little while. “Why’s that?” He cursed himself for asking. He knew that, if Sherlock so much as hinted, he would lay back for him, beg him, give him all of his secrets and thank him for the pleasure of being flayed open under that intense gaze.

“I used to dream of you being hurt, of you leaving to marry some woman, forgetting me. Those were their own discomfort. But since...since Moriarty, since...since what I did to keep you safe...” He reached out, unable to help himself. John tensed as Sherlock’s fingers brushed against his throat, down his shoulder. “My dreams are uncomfortable for other reasons entirely.”

“Oh?” John closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. He was resigned, he decided, to be a fool for this man. “I dream of you dying, you know. Dying after falling, dying at the pool, dying in any number of stupid and horrible ways.” He opened his eyes and found Sherlock far closer than he remembered him being just a few seconds before. “When you were off chasing Moriarty...”

“Shh. I’m not done.” Sherlock pressed his thumb against John’s lips and felt the catch of breath against his skin. “I dream of how I wished it had been when I returned from the chase. I dream of how I want it to be when we’re alone, watching crap telly.” John’s brows crept up and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sex, John. I dream of shagging you senseless. But what makes it so...disturbing...is that I dream of shagging you senseless after doing dull and trite things like...” he wrinkled his nose as he thought, “like doing the washing up, or just tucked into bed...”

John moved away just enough to speak. “If this is an experiment, Sherlock...”

“I swear on my best skull,” Sherlock replied, words a bare whisper as he leaned in again. “I’m going to kiss you, John.” John barely nodded, and then they were in each other’s arms. It wasn’t perfect--tongues, teeth, lips all clashing and fighting for dominance while hands groped for purchase--but it was theirs and when Sherlock pulled away to breathe, John laughed softly. “Swear to God, if this is an experiment...”

“If it were an experiment,” Sherlock snarled, only a little annoyed, far more interested in that tiny noise John had made as their tongues slid and thrust wetly, mimicking things both men had only dreamt of with one another, “I would be far less considerate.” He pushed John back onto the sofa and straddled him, the press of John’s growing erection obvious against Sherlock’s thigh, his own burgeoning member a distraction where it rubbed against the inside of his trousers. “I’ve held myself in check for so long, John, because I did not...I did not deduce properly. I admit it to you, and only you, that I let my own conceit blind me. I fancied you to be more interested in casual sex, then I thought that, perhaps it was just me you were not interested in. I observed but I did not see,” he said, a wry smile marring his features as he began working the flies of John’s jeans open.

“Ironic,” John breathed. “Sherlock, did you...did you know I...”

Sherlock pressed a quick, hard kiss to silence John. “I left the party because I grew up.”

“Just tonight?” John laughed again, closing his eyes as Sherlock’s fingers found his mostly-hard cock and gave it a squeeze. “Oh, God... this is real, isn’t it? I didn’t pass out drunk and have an embarrassing wet dream?”

“Not this time.” Sherlock leaned back and exhaled appreciatively. “I’m sure that this is going too fast by someone’s standards but I just need... I want you right now, John.” John groaned, and Sherlock took that for agreement. He slid to the floor, pushing John’s thighs apart and taking the head of his cock between his lips.

John was fairly certain that he was indeed passed out on the floor and would awaken to see Sherlock and possibly Mrs Hudson staring at him in disgust. He looked down to see Sherlock’s dark head bobbing between his thighs, the thick length of his prick disappearing into the detective’s mouth as Sherlock did something with his tongue and John’s foreskin that made the doctor’s eyes roll back and his hips arch involuntarily. “Sorry,” he gasped. “I...sorry!”

Sherlock hummed approval around his mouthful of John and worked one hand between John’s pants and balls to palm the soft sac there. He tongued the wet slit, lapping at the pre-come as John groaned again and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hair.

John knew this wouldn’t last long, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had wanted Sherlock for so long (since the lab at Bart’s, if he were being honest) and loved him for so long (since the day he came back, since the day John found out he’d been lied to and had never been happier for it). He tried to think of cadavers, of Mike naked and doing a hula dance, of ingrown toenails, but none of it helped. Sherlock’s tongue and fingers and breath against his thigh and just everything drove him to the edge, and before he knew it, he was shouting release, spurting thick streams of cum down Sherlock’s throat, onto his chin as he pulled away to watch, to stroke and stare as John shuddered to completion. “Oh, God,” John groaned, eyes half-closed, the sight of Sherlock in a tuxedo, kneeling between his thighs, his come streaking that dark hair and pale chin, lips parted and breathing fast and rough, making John wish to be a younger man, able to go again after just a few minutes and not several hours.

“One usually says that in the throes, I’m given to understand.” Sherlock sat back onto his heels and shook out his pocket square to dab at his chin delicately. “I suppose this is a rather...not good way to tell you I have feelings for you, too, you great idiot?”

“I think,” John panted, breath slowly coming back to normal, “I can find this an acceptable method.” He tugged Sherlock up to sit next to him on the sofa and pressed his palm against the obvious bulge in the detective’s trousers. “So seeing this Victor person tonight made you realize you...have feelings for me. The sort of feelings that lead to surprised new year’s eve blowjobs for unsuspecting flatmates content to pine after you rather than ruin what we already have?”

“Really, John. How..overwrought.” There was no malice in the words, though, as Sherlock closed his eyes and shuddered under John’s touch and the rough pleasure of fabric rubbing against his straining cock. “I realized that you are the least dull person I know. And there was only one familiar face I wanted to see this evening, and that’s yours.”

John giggled, getting to his knees then. “I love you too, Sherlock. Happy New Year.” Outside, horns honked and bells rang as midnight struck. Inside, John worked Sherlock into a babbling fit with his mouth and hands, tongue promising deeper pleasures once they regained their breath.

“John,” Sherlock panted a few minutes later. “Does this count as a traditional New Year’s kiss?”

“For us? Yes.”


End file.
